


this life ain't no love song

by crownedcarl



Category: The Outsiders (1983), The Outsiders - All Media Types, The Outsiders - S. E. Hinton
Genre: Angst and Feels, First Kiss, Hopeful Ending, Jealousy, M/M, Period Typical Attitudes, Pining, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-08
Updated: 2020-10-08
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:08:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26794909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crownedcarl/pseuds/crownedcarl
Summary: Dally's made a lot of mistakes. Johnny Cade ain't one of them.
Relationships: Johnny Cade/Dallas Winston
Comments: 11
Kudos: 102





	this life ain't no love song

**Author's Note:**

> Me, obsessed with writing indulgent pre-canon era angst fiestas for these two? It's more likely than you think. Shoutout to the commenter known as star for inspiring me to take a crack at writing from Dally's POV, because it was very rewarding to dive into his character. I think it goes without saying but, as a disclaimer, everything that alludes to Dally's past is, of course, pure headcanon on my part.
> 
> This was a labor of love from beginning to end. I've never been happier with a fic, and I have a decade's worth of writing under my belt, so I really, truly hope you enjoy reading this even half as much as I enjoyed writing it. The title is from Black Eyes by Radical Face.
> 
> All comments and criticisms are welcome, and I'd love to hear how you think I did in terms of characterization in particular. ❤

Dallas Winston doesn’t get lonely. He’s never had the chance.

Across five different states, a dozen small towns and endless backroads, Dally’s made it a habit not to settle down. He goes where he pleases, when he pleases. Takes on work where it’s available, steals when it suits him, talks his way into beds when he can’t be bothered to pay for a room for the night, and that’s the way it goes for the longest time. Spring to summer, summer to autumn, Dally changes with the seasons. He's got restless feet; can't seem to stand still.

It’s comfortable, though. Comfortable enough, at least, because once people start learning his name and recognizing his face around town, that’s when Dally splits again, with no time or desire for goodbyes.

Leaving’s what he does best.

He drifts. Takes a train, hitches a ride, walks himself right on over to the next meal ticket and the next anonymous little town, never staying for long enough to put down roots - until Tulsa, Oklahoma and its dead-end roads.

Whether by luck or by chance, Dally likes it there. Likes it enough to stick around, at least, until the weeks bleed into months and the boys he sometimes run with manage to become friends, in the loosest sense of the word. Except soon enough they’re buddy-buddy, thick as thieves, and then Dally can’t seem to think of a good enough reason to leave and start all over from scratch again.

He tells himself it’s not worth the effort, throwing away a steady income and a comfortable living. Dally tells himself a lot of things, all the time.

Now, Tulsa ain’t home, but Dally’s never had one of those, anyway. It seems as good a place as any to keep his head above water, so he hangs with the boys, plays cards with them around crowded tables and tells them stories about New York and the streets he grew up on. Dally's a real story-teller, when he wants to be. He knows how to keep people's attention. He's better at shaking it off, though, preferring to fly under the radar.

He gets to know the boys well enough, too, but nobody gets close to Dally, no more than he allows, and Dally’s not charitable when it comes to his true colors. It hardly matters. Nobody wants to hear another sob story, he figures, choosing to keep his cards close to his chest. They seem to understand the decision.

They’re his people, Dally decides, but some things a man’s got to keep to himself, no matter what. Some things you take to the grave, and Dally’s got a lot of skeletons to bury, when the time comes.

His prickly nature aside, they’re a gang, though, sure enough. Dally’s never doubted it, even when they still seemed wary of him, ‘cause Dally has that effect on people, all wild grin and bruised knuckles - part of his charm, he thinks, knowing it keeps people at a distance.

The boys are his friends. Dally can count on them all to have his back. He wonders if maybe Darry had looked at him and decided he was better off having Dally as a friend than as a loose cannon, something unpredictable Darry couldn't account for...so he's their friend. That's that.

Sometimes, though, when he’s just about to leave Darry’s and take off for home, he looks back and realizes that he hates what he sees sitting in that kitchen, or lounging in the living room, looking at the warm bodies sprawled out like they’ve got no cares in the world. Sitting in pairs of two, heads close together, or a pair of arms around a set of lean shoulders, maybe long legs flung across a welcoming lap, like intimacy comes so goddamn easy to people who's names aren't Dallas Winston.

He sees Two-Bit and Darry, Steve and Soda, Pony and Johnny...

And then there’s Dally, last in line. Dally, who skirts the perimeter, who doesn’t fit in, who’ll never be anyone’s favorite. It’s fine by him. It’s fucking dandy, in fact.

Except that, truth be told, Dally hates Ponyboy, sometimes. He’d never say it out loud, but he’s confident it shows now and then, ‘cause Dally’s got zero to no patience when Pony invites himself along when Johnny’s the one Dally’s really asking in the first place. Pony acts like they’re a matched set and Dally’s going to ruin something by separating them, and a bitter knot ends up forming in his throat each and every time he’s reminded of it.

But sometimes, Johnny won’t go without Pony, and there's no arguing with that. Sometimes, Dally can’t fault Johnny for it, either.

He wishes that it had just been the two of them, though, at the drive-in earlier that night, ‘cause maybe then Dally wouldn’t have gotten himself into a jam if Pony hadn’t been there to impress, or to scare. If it had been just Dally and Johnny, Dally would’ve been nicer, more relaxed, less inclined to boil over with impotent rage.

He’s honestly not sure what he wanted out of all that peacocking. It got him jack squat.

Here's the thing. The drive-in is a staple for them on weekends - sometimes, even Darry deigns to come, which means a whole lotta hooting and hollering from the boys, emboldened by Darry’s damn near untouchable status, but tonight had gone to shit the moment Dally sat himself down next to Pony and realized how little he wanted him there, a scowl painting his lips.

Dally really isn’t sure what he expected to happen, next, during the first act. All he was sure of was the anger broiling in his gut.

He’s sure, though, that he wouldn’t have kicked the back of the fat guy’s chair or tugged on his broad’s braid if Pony hadn’t been brushing shoulders with Johnny, whispering to him, asking what he thought of this joke or that fight scene, like Dally wasn’t even there, and Pony’s dismissal had set Dally off faster than someone kicking a hornet’s nest.

He wouldn’t have taken things that far if he’d been able to have Johnny to himself. Dally wouldn’t have gotten in the guy’s face, itching for a fight, if Pony hadn’t had the nerve to rest his head on Johnny’s shoulder like he had done it thousands of times before, like he wasn't even thinking 'bout it.

Dally would’ve left things well enough alone if Pony'd had the decency to do the same to Johnny. Instead, Dally got wound up. Instead, he ran his tongue over his teeth and damn near begged the other guy to swing at him, just to give Dally an excuse to swing back and make it count.

Deep down, Dally hadn't wanted to fight him. He hadn't wanted to fight Pony, either. The truth of the thing sits all bitter in his belly, like a stomachache that never goes away, just brews and grows 'til it's all Dally knows.

All his anger and his clenched fists had set Johnny off eventually. Nothing good came from the standoff, and all that wound up happening was Johnny telling him to cool off and Dally slinking away in a huff. He hadn't known how to rewind the last couple minutes to take it all back and make Johnny look less scared of him, ‘cause Dally hated that look in Johnny’s eyes, the one that said Dally had crossed a line and spooked him.

That’s the last thing Dally wants, being the one to put that look on Johnny's face, the half-skittish one that teeters on afraid. The last thing he’s ever wanted is to fuck things up between them, ‘cause Dally doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to set things right if he trips up and breaks Johnny’s trust, something that’s been precious and hard-won from the start. He'd apologize, but Dally had the sense that Johnny didn't want him to stick around long enough for Johnny to hear it.

Apologies aren’t his strong suit, anyway. Dally had taken off, brooding and miserable, pissed at the world and at himself, feeling empty after all that anger had slowly drained away.

It seems like all Dally knows is trouble. It’s the one constant he’s been able to count on to keep him company all these hard, lonely years.

He's gotten himself into a lot of trouble for no good reason, if he’s being truthful. Johnny’s witnessed it plenty of times, so it’s hardly a secret that Dally gets mad and dumb, sometimes, under all the wrong circumstances. Dally burns hot on a short fuse, talks with his fists instead of his mouth and doesn't give a fuck what anyone else thinks about it.

It’s just that Johnny isn’t everyone else. It’s just that Dally didn’t want to see Johnny mad at him, is the long and short of it, so he left, tail tucked between his legs.

He walked himself all over town before joining everyone else back at Darry’s, never giving Johnny a chance to get him alone. He'd evaded the interrogation and ducked Johnny’s questioning looks, happy enough to try to pretend that things hadn’t gone tits-up, wishing all the while that Johnny would just leave him alone and let him lick his wounds in peace, already.

Truth is, Dally’s smarting over making a fool of himself, but mostly he's kicking himself for making Johnny look at him all disappointed and upset. All he wanted was to watch a movie in peace and Dally ruined it, 'cause he ruins every good thing he's ever had.

The boys are arguing, but playful-like, although their words go right over Dally's head. He's perched on the arm of the couch, observing without joining in, throat clicking when Soda saunters out with an armful of drinks, handing them out and pushing an already opened beer into Dally's slack hand. He almost drops it, distracted, watching Johnny talking quietly with Pony, the two of them in a world of their own.

Dally's jaw works in a tight grind. Johnny's shirt collar droops low, 'cause Soda had grabbed Johnny by the front of it and dragged him into the kitchen for help earlier, and Johnny's collarbone is all exposed, sharp and jutting. His drink is slippery with condensation. A drop falls slowly to bare skin.

Jesus, Dally thinks. God help me.

He averts his eyes.

Long after the movie, after the beers at the Curtis house have been finished, Dally takes his leave. He escapes out the back door before anyone’s wise to it, caught up in another good-natured argument, but it ain’t long after that when Dally hears footsteps approaching. It's a familiar gait that catches up to him where he stops just short of the park, lighting up a smoke, staring up at the sky until the stars all start to blur.

It's a dark and dreary night, the kind that Dally feels right at home in. He could almost pretend that it's just him and the jet-black sky with its little twinkling lights out here if he tried hard enough, but Johnny is difficult to ignore, staring at Dally like that, wide-eyed and shame-faced.

Try as he might, Dally's no good at ignoring him. Never has been.

“You don’t say goodbye, now?” Johnny huffs, tucking his jacket tighter around himself. “I wanted to talk to you, man.”

Dally snorts, waving a hand in Johnny’s direction. “I know you’re pissed,” he reasons. “And nobody cares if I say goodbye or not, Johnnycake. You guys were busy, anyway.”

“Don’t be like that,” Johnny complains, then, while Dally’s trying to give him the cold shoulder without much success, “I didn’t mean nothing by it, earlier. You don’t gotta freeze me out for it. Just, you were causing a lot of trouble, Dal…”

“Don’t I always?” Dally mumbles around the cigarette, finally turning to look at Johnny, “Hey, don’t sweat it. Didn't mean to scare you.”

"You don't," Johnny huffs, his shoulders up by his ears, "You didn't. You get on my nerves, sure...but you don't scare me."

Dally laughs out loud. "Well, there's a first," he mutters, sure that Johnny can hear the relief in it.

Johnny nods, bouncing a little on his feet, like he’s got to keep moving or else the cold’ll set into his bones once and for all. Dally’s lips twitch.

It's just the two of them, now. The universe only ever gives Dally what he wants when he gets it backwards or upside down.

Closing his eyes, Dally's damn near overwhelmed by a sensation he hasn't felt in years. He's suffocating. He's on the brink of something dangerous, something terrible.

It feels like childhood all over again, 'cause Dally had an uncle, once, who used to take Dally to church. Insisted on it, thought Dally needed a prayer or two to keep him on the straight and narrow. He thinks it's funny how the memory comes to him now, while Johnny shivers two feet away, but something about the stillness and the dark reminds Dally of that holy place, the hush of the confessional, the odd shame and beauty of it all.

He remembers that once, he had worked up the nerve to confess. Dally had whispered the unthinkable, ‘cause he was seven and thought god loved everyone, that forgiveness was a virtue, but Dally walked out more hollow than he'd gone in. On the way home he thought, briefly, about veering into traffic instead of taking his usual left, but Dally hadn't been that brave, or that stupid.

Some sins can’t be forgiven. Johnny looks at him and Dally feels like that kid again, near tears, wondering what the hell god has to do with desire, anyway, 'cause there's nothing dirty about Johnny Cade and if Dally had to bet his faith on anything, it would've been Johnny.

Funny, that. Dally hasn’t asked for forgiveness in years. He’s not about to start a worried talk to god now, while Johnny’s bruised eyes and his downturned mouth are right there, watching Dally like he’s waiting for some kind of revelation that never comes. They're standing around with empty hands, and Dally finds the good sense to start breathing again.

After a while of that expectant silence, Johnny finds his voice, which rings shockingly loud in the space between them.

“Can I ask you somethin’, Dal?”

“Free country, Johnnycake.”

“Well, it’s just…”

He stutters, kicking at some pebbles in the dirt before shoving his hands deep in his pockets, like Johnny's desperate for something to keep them good and occupied. “If Pony talked to you like that, you’d have smacked him six ways to Sunday. But you don’t smack me around.”

“You don’t annoy me like Pony does,” Dally sighs, a half-truth at best, “Is that all?”

“Nah. Nah, that ain’t it.”

Dally smiles around his cigarette, crooked as a dog’s hind leg. “Don’t push it, Johnny.”

“What? What’ll you do to me, Dally, huh? You ain’t gonna hit me. You won’t.”

“Just ‘cause I haven’t yet doesn’t mean I won’t,” Dally groans, feeling a headache come on, pulsing behind his temples. It's been a long night that just keeps on getting longer. “Johnny, man, what do you want me to say?”

“Well, tell me why. What makes me so special?”

Johnny's got a joking lilt to his voice, despite the way he's staring Dally down and searching his face for clues. He could get away with a joking reply, too, if it wasn't for the fact that Dally's plain tired.

Everything, he thinks, pursing his lips, the words sitting ready behind his teeth. Every last damn thing about you.

Dally has always liked Johnny best. Maybe it’s the fact that Johnny’s harmless, in his own way, that makes Dally gravitate towards him.

Sometimes, he doesn’t want to be anywhere near Darry when he gets into one of his moods and starts goin’ off on Pony, ‘cause Darry’s got these broad shoulders and a solid right hook that Dally tries to steer clear of when tempers go flaring up. Dally isn't scared of anyone, but he likes not to get himself involved in fights that have nothing to do with him.

He's seen all the boys get violent, get mean, but Johnny? Johnny's the sensitive type. On a bad day, Johnny still wouldn’t hurt a fly.

He wouldn’t hurt Dally, at least. Johnny probably doesn’t even know how to.

Small blessings, Dally thinks sourly.

“You just are,” he evades, trying to avoid the root of the thing without lying to Johnny's face, “I don’t know, alright? I know Pony’s your best pal, but you’re mine, Johnny. You get it. You ain’t afraid of me and I don’t want you to be.”

If Dally ever made Johnny flinch, he’d never forgive himself for it. Johnny's been through enough. He's seen enough and endured enough and if Dally could, he'd set Johnny up for a charmed life, the kind where Johnny doesn't ever get hurt again, but it ain't all up to Dally, and he can't offer it, anyway.

At the crossroad of desire and guilt, all Dally really wants is to keep Johnny around, because Johnny's never really seemed scared of Dally, and he doesn't want that to change. It's the best thing he's got, Johnny and his grit.

Dally can recognize the signs of Johnny Cade afraid, 'cause he's seen the signs from up close, how Johnny makes himself real small when tensions rise and fists start flying and he’s not throwing any of the punches, but Johnny never really looks at Dally with those bruised doe eyes of his. He just looks at Dally like he’s a person. Like he’s as real as anyone else. Like Johnny can't imagine ever being afraid of him, somehow.

“Okay,” Johnny whispers, “I hear you," and he's talking quietly, but there's a solid conviction behind the words that relaxes Dally's tense shoulders.

"Right," he coughs, turning to look at the stars again, "Good. I care about you, Johnny. You don't gotta be afraid of me."

He looks Johnny over in a long, lingering glance and finds that Johnny looks perfectly comfortable. Dally's clumsy reassurance hasn't ignited any suspicion in Johnny, 'cause it doesn't seem like he's about to turn tail to run as far away from Dally as fast as he can, which would be the smart thing to do.

Dally’s never been able to convince Johnny that he’s bad, though, that Johnny would be better off elsewhere, not having to live with being on the receiving end of Dally's rotten affection.

If Dally was smart, he’d have stayed away from Johnny from the beginning. At this point, he doesn’t know how to make the right decision, anymore.

“Dal?”

“What?”

“You’re mine, too,” Johnny tells him. “You know.”

A part of Dally suddenly wants to laugh. The rest of him wants to cry, 'cause Johnny heard. Johnny took the words apart and found the secret Dally's tried to bury from the beginning, but Johnny knows, and then he's saying something Dally doesn't have the nerve to believe.

He turns his head until the streetlamp is only illuminating half his face, ‘til Johnny can’t see the pained moue on his lips, ‘cause Dally knows exactly what Johnny means. He knows they’re not talking about friendship anymore, and it’s all his fault, because Dally can't keep his mouth shut when it matters. Now he's gone and created something that's never going to end well, and Dally's always known it, too. Happy endings don't apply, here.

“It don’t gotta mean nothing,” Johnny adds in a high-pitched rush, like he hasn’t noticed that Dally’s burning up from the inside, that he's just been given everything he's ever wanted but that he can't ever keep, “I mean, not if you don't want it to. But you told me, first. I don’t wanna lie to you.”

He should. Johnny should learn from Dally. He's the best at it, after all.

The weight of everything unraveling sends Dally staggering against the lamppost, where he holds himself upright with an arm wrapped around it, exhaling smoke into the crisp autumn air. His mind is working overtime to fix the mess they're in, but all Dally manages to croak is “Johnny…”

“Dal,” Johnny sighs, placing a hand on his back, like he thinks that's what Dally needs, and it is, “Don’t, alright? You can have your secrets, I swear, but...this one’s too important.”

His voice wavers. “Man, you’re too important.”

That's when Dally cracks up, standing with one foot on the sidewalk and the other in the street, letting Johnny pat his back all awkward and earnest, until Dally feels more rooted in his body, able to stand on his own two legs again. He wonders if Johnny has any idea what he's gone and done, if he knows how there's no undoing it, and then, half-hysterical, Dally wonders if maybe that's the point.

Maybe Johnny couldn't stand another second of playing pretend, either. Dally just so happened to slip up and create an opportunity that Johnny ran with and Dally thinks that he should be angry about that but mostly, he feels impressed.

Johnny's always had more guts than Dally ever did.

“You don’t make it easy,” he tells Johnny, still feeling like his chest has been cracked open, the way the fellas down at the morgue do it, talking circles around the thing they're both haplessly trying to pry open like a pomegranate, wanting to reach the juicy center of the truth, “Christ, Johnnycake. You sure know how to make a guy feel special, huh?”

“Yeah, it’s my superpower,” Johnny snarks, scuffing the toe of his tennis shoe against the ground, “Is it working alright?”

“Sure is,” Dally mutters, his usual cocksure attitude melting right off his shoulders, like an ill-fitting jacket being discarded. His heart is racing at a mile a minute. After a while, Dally can feel the flames of hope being fanned in his chest and despite it all, Dally still can't bring himself to say it out loud.

“Hey, Johnny. Thanks.”

“What for?”

Dally could play it off as a joke, maybe tell Johnny _thanks for not running that smart mouth, thanks for sticking around,_ or the pathetically transparent _thanks for hearing what I'm too chicken to say,_ but there’s this impulse in his head that tells him to be truthful, that at least once it’s out there, Johnny might wise up and put some distance between them and stop looking at Dally like he hung the moon.

But Dally and the truth haven't seen eye to eye in years, so he swallows down the desire to risk everything, this time around. Croaks “Thanks for being a friend,” and while he manages not to choke on the words, there’s this ridiculous catch in his breath that gives him away, makes him feel naked and weak in his own body.

Only Johnny’s ever been able to see past the gruff and the bluster. He looks Dally up and down, then says “Let me walk you home, Dal,” like that’s all he means by it, like Johnny’s gonna play gentleman and see Dally home safe, like Dally's some girl Johnny's walking back from a movie.

It shouldn't make his stomach tighten the way it does, but truth be told, Dally's never felt more wanted than he does in that moment, watching Johnny squirm under Dally's wide-eyed stare. He's got no clue what to do with the feeling. Dally's afraid to learn how to navigate it, too. All he's got are loose ends and impossible hopes.

Maybe he's not the only one thinking about things that he can never have, 'cause Johnny's gone red-faced, like maybe this is the closest thing to a date Johnny can imagine, too, when it comes to the two of them and the shroud of the mean reality that keeps them careful. If this was a date, it'd be a parody of one at best, that's for sure, but Johnny still makes eyes at Dally like maybe he’s hoping he can swing himself a goodnight kiss at the door, but that’s a pipe dream.

Dally’s never had a good one, anyway - a good dream, that is.

Until Tulsa. Until Johnny Cade and his sad mouth and those big, dark eyes. The entire universe and its pockets of gold pales in contrast to Johnny Cade, lit up yellow by a streetlamp, shivering in the cold.

Goddamn, but it’s impossible not to hope. Even when it's bound to ruin him. Even when Dally ought to know better.

“Right,” Dally sighs, shaking his head, his knuckles gone white, his cigarette long since burnt to a stub, hanging from shaky fingers. He can't seem to keep his words straight, 'cause he looks around them at the empty streets and blurts “Don’t, uh, don’t get fresh, kid-”

“I won’t,” Johnny protests, eyes going flighty as he looks around them, too, eyes peeled for hidden dangers. Maybe he thinks Dally won’t hear him whisper “Not here, anyway,” but Dally does. He trips over his own feet.

They trudge on over to Dally’s place in a silence that isn’t uncomfortable, but tense, anyway, like a wire about to snap. Johnny walks a step behind Dally, then comes to a halt as Dally unlocks the front door and rocks back on his heels, one foot in the apartment, the other one on the stoop. He feels off-balance, knowing that Johnny’s expecting something from him that Dally’s got no clue how to give, his throat all dry and scratchy, trying to find the right words to salvage the night.

Johnny's shadow falls across him, long and lean. Even without looking, Dally can tell that Johnny's face has gone pinched, that his shuffling feet are carrying a tense frame of skinny legs and hunched shoulders and for a moment, Dally feels like some kind of voyeur, only then realizing how familiar Johnny is to him, how many hours he must've spent looking to memorize the details of Johnny's body, its quirks and the details of them.

Once, Johnny had told him that nobody but Dally ever really saw him. Maybe that’s his superpower, then. Noticing Johnny Cade when the rest of the world won’t.

For his part, Dally can't remember the last time he felt seen, like someone made the choice to look deeper than the surface. For all he knows, this could be the first time, or the very last, pinned under Johnny's searching eyes, Dally's hands fumbling under the weight of that expectation, that unholy responsibility hanging like a noose around his neck. He wants to drag the door open and slam it shut between them, like a vault where Johnny can't get in, the itch in his fingers growing stronger by the second.

In the end, though, Dally forces himself to turn around as the door swings open, making himself look at Johnny backlit by a flickering streetlight. He feels real old, all of a sudden, weary, his bones turned to lead, feeling a pit in his stomach that’s growing wider, like a yawning mouth that refuses to close. Hunger, that's the thing. He's at the very end of a lifelong starvation.

Dally never gets what he wants.

“You ought to go home, Johnny.”

He gets a piercing look for that suggestion, his mouth clicking shut under Johnny's raised eyebrows.

“Do you want me to?”

“Shit,” Dally laughs, bracing an arm against the doorframe, snapping, “What’s it matter what I want?”

Johnny’s arms fold up across his chest, tight and uncomfortable. “It matters to me,” he tells Dally, chewing his lower lip, “Ain’t you got that, yet? You matter to me. A whole lot.”

It can’t be an easy thing to say, all things considered, even if the two of them have been talking in carefully coded language all evening, like there’s spies everywhere, which there might as well be. One wrong look, one wrong word and the world turns against them that one last bit. Dally thinks that it would be the last straw, the thing that sends him tumbling into the deep end for real, if something came between him and Johnny, even if that thing is Dally himself.

He realizes then that his face is a nasty traitor. Try as he might, his expression screws up, goes all wobbly and raw with desire, and Johnny is there to witness it all.

“I can’t be what you want me to be, Johnnycake. That’s the truth. I’m no good.”

He's known it since he was just a kid. There's no shaking it off, no changing his colors - Dally is ruined in some fundamental way, 'cause good people don't end up like Dally, and he's never cared about being good before, but he wants to be good to Johnny.

For Johnny. Johnny, who rolls his eyes and plants his feet in front of Dally, and even the stubborn set of his jaw makes Dally damn near anxious with wanting.

“I don’t wanna talk about it out here, Dal.”

“There’s nothing to talk about. You gotta get home. Thanks for walking me here, but-”

“Dally,” Johnny cuts him off, his voice rising in pitch, “You should really shut up. Right now.”

Dally watches in a confused, horror-struck kind of way as Johnny elbows his way inside, then spins around on his heels, backing Dally up against the door until it closes under their combined weight. He can hear the hinges tremble and then groan, watching intently as Johnny wets his lower lip, the two of them standing in the oppressive darkness of the apartment. It feels like the entire earth stands still, waiting for the some sentence to be passed. Guilty or not guilty, yes or no, now or never.

Nothing happens, yet. Dally breathes and Johnny breathes with him. His hand reaches up to toy with Dally's pendant, and his chest squeezes real tight at the sight of it, like Johnny's reached inside his chest to make a fist around Dally's lungs, forcing the air out of him on a gasp that sounds noisy and girly and wanton, somehow.

Under Saint Christopher's watchful eye, Johnny leans in closer, eyes blazing in the darkness.

“Don’t tell me what matters,” Johnny bites out hotly. “I can think for myself.”

Dally looks at him, then cracks a grin that feels, in some way, like a benediction. “What are you thinking of now, Johnny?”

Johnny’s eyes don’t go to Dally’s mouth. They look everywhere else: at Dally’s arms, his hips, the long line of his legs. Johnny makes a fist, then puts it right to Dally’s chest, knuckles digging into the skin.

“Man, I’m not sure I’m thinking at all,” Johnny whispers.

He kisses Dally.

He kisses Dally like a freight train careening off the tracks and down a cliff, shattering upon impact.

Johnny kisses Dally like he’s trying to invent a new language, whispering soft and indiscernible against Dally’s mouth in pleading tones and harsh, wanton sighs that go right to Dally’s head, leaving him on the brink of breathlessness. All of Johnny's arguing, and this is the thing that finally shuts Dally up, his hands clawing at Johnny's narrow hips for purchase, mouth opening under Johnny's.

Dally's pulse races. His head goes blissfully empty, exhaling a shuddering sigh against Johnny's lips, making a wounded, protesting noise when Johnny suddenly pulls back to search Dally's face.

Whatever he finds, it makes Johnny's mouth tremble. Dally's sure he's trembling, too.

He hasn’t cried since he was a baby. He’s not sure he cried back then, either. When Johnny croaks “You gotta give me something, Dal,” an unfamiliar rush of heat starts to prickle behind Dally’s eyes, like the feeling of a cigarette burn, or scalding hot coffee on his leg, the kind of pain you don't notice 'til the damage is already done and it's too late to do anything about it. Dally squeezes his eyes shut, then, to stave off the waterworks.

“Give me something,” Johnny begs and Dally laughs helplessly through the urge to cry.

“Anything,” Dally pants, his voice unfamiliar to his own ears, like he's begging Johnny right back, “Jesus, Johnny, you can have everything-”

“Then don’t make me leave. Don’t force me out. Dally…”

Johnny's voice cracks, splits right down the center, looking at Dally like he's counting on him to do the impossible.

Dally could never really do it - make Johnny leave, make it so that they'd never talk about this again. He could never really do it with conviction, at least, because Dally could never get rid of Johnny in the ways that matter, because there's a space in his chest that's all Johnny's and nobody can take that from Dally, like Johnny’s some trinket you could just throw out with the trash.

Dally's made a lot of mistakes. Johnny Cade ain't one of them.

Inhaling deeply, Dally runs a hand up Johnny’s side, then squeezes Johnny’s shoulder, cups the soft curve of his jaw.

He looks right at Johnny and says “I don’t know how, Johnnycake. Believe me, I been trying.”

For some unfathomable reason, it makes Johnny smile, the bright smile Dally can't ever get enough of. “You been failing, you mean,” Johnny corrects him on a laugh, the sound abruptly trailing off into a sigh, concern replacing the levity. “Dally, man. I ain’t got one good thing in this world, you know? I love the gang. I love Pony.”

Dally braces himself like he's preparing for a tidal wave.

“Without ‘em, I’d be long dead. But I don’t need them like I need you.”

“I get it,” Dally promises, even though he doesn't, because it's always been Johnny, for him. “Geez, Johnny...I don’t need anyone. Never did. ‘til…”

Johnny nods, butting their foreheads together, and it’s then that Dally realizes that Johnny’s standing up on his toes to reach Dally good and proper. It makes him laugh. He keeps on laughing right into the kiss Johnny gentles him into, his lips hesitant, like Dally’s not a sure thing. Johnny kisses him and keeps on kissing him on trembling legs, his thumb against Dally's frenzied pulse, Dally's back aching all the while, pressed against the shuddering door.

He makes no complaint. All Dally does is chase Johnny's mouth, like a racehound on a track, betting all his money on a hope and a prayer, Saint Christopher pressed between their heaving chests.

He feels like a dog, half-starved, teeth clamped tight around a bone, ready to kill before he let it go - and in the real world, where their bodies are warm and pressed together, Dally knows that he'd kill before he’d let Johnny go, too, and the thing that’s funny is that if Johnny asked him not to, Dally wouldn’t. He’d do damn near anything Johnny asked.

Dally’s lived a lot of lives. He’s been a rotten kid, a vagrant, a murderer. He’s been a convict and a jockey and a dozen other things, but he ain’t ever been loved.

Johnny kisses him.

Well, Dally figures, there’s a first time for everything.


End file.
